Poems (Campbell)/Elvira
ELVIRA.
What dying fall from more than mortal string
Steals on mine ear so soft and slow?
From upper realms of air it seems to fling
Its mournful sweetness on the world below.—
Such strains do seraphs chaunt, when the still hour
Of solemn midnight breathes its gloom around,
What time from harps of heaven they love to pour
Their hymns of joy; and such the blissful sound
That welcomes home from scenes of earthly pain
Some pure and happy spirit—such the strain
That whispers peace before the blessed die,
And on the closing ear makes distant melody!
'Tis thine, Elvira! angels bear thee hence;
Peril and pain shall visit thee no more,
No more shall anguish wring thy tortur'd sense,
Nor doom thy soul to sorrow's with'ring pow'r.
Yet I must weep—but not that thou art free,
For bliss is thine beyond conception great;
I weep—but, oh! I weep to follow thee,
And rather envy than deplore thy fate.
Steals on mine ear so soft and slow?
From upper realms of air it seems to fling
Its mournful sweetness on the world below.—
Such strains do seraphs chaunt, when the still hour
Of solemn midnight breathes its gloom around,
What time from harps of heaven they love to pour
Their hymns of joy; and such the blissful sound
That welcomes home from scenes of earthly pain
Some pure and happy spirit—such the strain
That whispers peace before the blessed die,
And on the closing ear makes distant melody!
'Tis thine, Elvira! angels bear thee hence;
Peril and pain shall visit thee no more,
No more shall anguish wring thy tortur'd sense,
Nor doom thy soul to sorrow's with'ring pow'r.
Yet I must weep—but not that thou art free,
For bliss is thine beyond conception great;
I weep—but, oh! I weep to follow thee,
And rather envy than deplore thy fate.